


Nothing in Common

by cybel



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 20:02:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11259963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cybel/pseuds/cybel
Summary: Napoleon and Illya have a great working relationship, but off the job do they have anything in common?





	Nothing in Common

**Author's Note:**

> Original version published in 1989 in the print zine _Dyad 1_. Newly re-edited for posting here.

Napoleon fingered his silk tie and fidgeted uncomfortably, only to still when his chair creaked under him as if threatening to self-destruct at any moment. He took a sip of espresso, grimacing at the strong, bitter flavor.

“You are not enjoying yourself,” Illya said. “Perhaps we should leave.”

“No, no,” Napoleon insisted with a somewhat forced smile, ducking his head to avoid the elbow of a tall, lank-haired waitress. “I’m fine. This place is very interesting. Very… bohemian.” He set down his demitasse, careful not to let the cuff of his shirt brush the top of the stained and sticky table.

Illya shook his head and scraped his own chair back, standing abruptly. “This was not a good idea,” he said as he turned and quickly walked away.

Napoleon rose to follow the Russian, who had already disappeared into the crowd. Reaching the exit, he took the stairs up to street level two at a time. Illya was leaning against a nearby streetlight, apparently deep in thought.

“Illya,” he asked as he approached him, “why did you walk out like that?”

The Russian shrugged. “You hated it in there. It did not make sense to stay.”

“I didn’t hate it, exactly,” Napoleon said. “I just didn’t like it very much. The way you didn’t like the nightclub I took you to last week.”

“Self-indulgent, bourgeois—” 

Napoleon laughed at Illya’s disgusted tone. “I know, I know: decadent, capitalistic, etc., etc.,” he mimicked, laying a hand on Illya’s shoulder and squeezing it affectionately. “You’re too serious, my friend. You don’t know how to relax and enjoy yourself.“

Illya snorted, his frown nevertheless smoothing out at the American’s banter. “That is not true,” he said. “It is just that I do not enjoy the same things you do.” He sighed, running a hand through his already disordered hair. “I do not understand why you feel we must socialize during our free time. On the job we have no problems; we compliment each other perfectly. In our personal lives, let’s face it, we have nothing in common.”

It was Napoleon’s turn to frown. “That’s not true,” he said.

“Isn’t it?” Illya took a step backward, unobtrusively freeing himself from Napoleon’s touch. He shivered. “It’s cold out here. Let’s go to the car.”

Napoleon’s frown deepened as they walked in silence to the car. He slid behind the wheel but did not attempt to start the engine. Instead he just sat there, drumming his fingers on the wheel. Beside him, Illya finally spoke. “Napoleon?”

“Hmm?” he answered, his thoughts far away.

“Are you angry with me?”

Napoleon shook his head, watching a young couple walk hand in hand across the street in front of them, heads bent toward each other intimately. “No,” he said with a sigh. “I’m not. Why would I be?”

“Well, something is wrong. What is it?”

“Nothing’s wrong. No, really.” Napoleon raised a mollifying hand, cutting off Illya’s irritated reply. “I was just thinking, that’s all. About us. Our friendship. We are friends, aren’t we?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Napoleon. Of course we are friends.”

“Ah! Finally we agree on something.” Napoleon smiled, then his smile widened into a full-fledged grin as he watched Illya unsuccessfully attempt to suppress a small smile of his own. “That’s better,” Napoleon said. “Smiling suits you. You should do it more often.”

“My facial expressions are not an issue here.” Illya’s smile faded, replaced by his usual taciturn mien. “You never answered my question back there.

“Which question was that?“

“The one that started this somewhat bizarre discussion in the first place. Why do you feel we must socialize during our free time?”

Napoleon shrugged. “It’s not that we _must_ , Illya. It’s that I _want_ to spend more time with you.”

“But why?” Illya pressed. “You could be doing something you really enjoy right now. Attending the opera or dining with a beautiful woman. Why do you want to waste your time with me?”

Napoleon turned to look at Illya, for once in his life at a loss for words. “I thought we just answered that question,” he said at last.

“Did we?” Illya sounded confused. “Tell me again. I must have missed it.”

“I want to be with you because you are my friend, damn it, and that’s what friends do. They spend time together! They talk and they listen and they share and—” Napoleon slapped the wheel hard with the palm of his hand. “Hell, I feel like I’m hitting my head against a brick wall. You don’t even know what I’m talking about, do you? Maybe I _am_ wasting my time after all. I’ll take you home.”

As Napoleon reached for the key, Illya grabbed his wrist, stopping him. “Your hand is shaking.” He looked at Napoleon quizzically.

Napoleon looked down at his offending extremity and took a deep breath, willing himself to relax. “I’m sorry,” he said at last, his eyes fixed on the pale, fine-boned hand still grasping his wrist. “I didn’t mean to shout at you.”

“No.” Illya’s voice was low. “It is I who am sorry. I know I can be difficult at times.” He let go of Napoleon. “Look,” he continued, “I really did mean what I said. I _am_ your friend, although I know I do a poor job of showing it. If this means so much to you, then I will go along with whatever you want to do.”

“But what about you, Illya? What do _you_ want? If this is all one-sided, if you’d really rather keep our friendship on a 9 to 5 basis, so to speak, then you might as well say so now and get it over with.”

“No,” Illya said decisively. “That is not what I want. But…”

“But?” Napoleon prompted.

“But what you are requesting is not easy for me. I’m not sure I know how to give anything of myself, even to a friend. Even to you.”

“Then we’ll go slowly. Just give me some of your time for now, that’s all, and we’ll see what happens. Okay?”

“That does not sound unreasonable,” Illya said. “All right. I agree.”

“Good. It’s getting late. I’d better drop you off home. We wouldn’t want to be late for Waverly's briefing in the morning.”

Illya feigned a horrified shudder. “No indeed. The mind reels at the ramifications of such a serious breach of protocol.”

Napoleon laughed. “Amen to that, my friend,” he said as he started the engine. “Amen to that.”

***

The Section Two briefing lasted well into the next morning. Illya, as usual, said little except when directly addressed. Even in this group of his peers he seemed to withdraw into the background as if he were merely an observer, not an active participant in the proceedings. Despite his silence, however, Napoleon knew that Illya missed nothing and that the keen intelligence behind his quiet demeanor was second to none present.

Napoleon was also aware that Illya was not especially well liked by their fellow agents. Some disliked him out of a basic antipathy toward all things Russian, and Napoleon found their attitude to be insufferably parochial and naive. After all, THRUSH was their common enemy, not the USSR, and Illya had proven himself loyal to U.N.C.L.E. innumerable times. 

Others of their coworkers disliked Illya for more personal, possibly more justifiable reasons. There was no doubt that he was not the easiest man in the world to get along with; even Napoleon had to admit that. He was often irascible and sarcastic, and he could cut down a man twice his size with one scathing, ice-blue glance. It was not by accident his nickname, always used behind his back and out of his hearing, was The Iceman.

Truly, Illya was not easy to get along with and was even harder to get to know. Napoleon realized that he was probably the only one in the entire organization who had ever tried to find out what lay behind Illya’s chilly exterior, and even he had only recently begun to see glimpses of the complexity and vulnerability his partner worked so diligently to keep hidden.

 _No_ , Napoleon thought, remembering the warmth of his friend’s hand on his wrist the night before, the unaccustomed, unguarded warmth in his eyes, his hesitancy as he admitted his difficulty in opening himself up to others, _Illya is definitely not an iceman. Maybe an iceberg would be a better analogy: most of him lies hidden beneath the surface waiting to be revealed. Wanting to be revealed?_

Absentmindedly tapping his pen against the cleft in his chin, Napoleon smiled to himself. Yes, Illya was a challenge. But then, Napoleon thrived on challenges.

“Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly’s sardonic voice interrupted his second in command’s reverie. “Are we boring you?”

Napoleon straightened, automatically turning on his considerable charm to hide his embarrassment at being caught daydreaming. “No, Sir,” he said. “I was just considering the long-term import of your comments concerning THRUSH’s new weapons research. It occurred to me that—” As he continued to speak, Napoleon could not help but note the suspicious glint in Waverly’s eyes and the conspiratorial twinkle in Illya’s. Some in the room might be taking his impromptu comments at face value, but those two were certainly not among them.

***

“What was that all about?” Illya asked as they sat down to lunch in the agents’ cafeteria.

“Hmm?” Napoleon took a sip of his coffee.

“That lapse of consciousness you had during the meeting. What was that all about?”

Napoleon waved a careless hand. “Oh, the Old Man had it right in the first place. I was bored, that’s all. Those routine meetings are a waste of time.

“Still, even considering that it was obviously a spontaneous improvisation, what you said made a great deal of sense. I think Waverley was impressed. I know I was.”

“Were you? Hey,” Napoleon said, changing the subject suddenly, “why don’t you come over to my place for dinner tonight? I make a great spaghetti sauce, and we could—what?”

Illya’s cup hung frozen halfway to his lips, and his eyes were wide with amazement. “You cook?”

“Of course I cook,” Napoleon answered in an aggrieved tone. “I live alone, and I’m of Italian descent. In other words, I’m an excellent cook. So, how about it?”

“I would not miss witnessing such a thing for the world,” Illya answered. “But if you poison us both, Waverly will never forgive you.”

“Humph. Is eight okay? That should give me time to get the sauce off to a good start.”

Illya nodded. “I shall be there.”

***

The doorbell rang promptly at eight. As he let Illya in, Napoleon grinned. “Do your know one of things I like best about you, Illya?” he asked as the Russian shrugged out of his coat. 

“No,” Illya answered suspiciously. “What?”

“You’re so predictable. Always on time, always dependable, always,” he shrugged. “I don’t know. Just predictable. It’s a very comforting trait for a friend to have.

Illya grimaced. “You make me sound very boring.”

Napoleon shook his head. “No. Never boring. Just the opposite, in fact.” Their eyes met and held for a long moment.

“I brought wine,” Illya said at last.

Napoleon took the bottle Illya offered, read the label, and let out an appreciative whistle. “This is a superb vintage! I didn’t realize you knew anything about fine wines.” He looked at Illya appraisingly. “I take back what I said a minute ago. I guess you’re not nearly as predictable as I thought. Come on, let’s go to the kitchen and open this little gem. I need to keep an eye on my sauce.”

Illya followed him into the small, well-appointed kitchen. Seeing that Napoleon had set two places at the breakfast bar, he crossed the room and sat down on one of the bar stools there.

“I hope you don’t mind eating in here,” Napoleon said. “Since you’re family, so to speak, I saw no sense in standing on ceremony.” He handed Illya a corkscrew. “You serve the wine while I start the pasta boiling and stir the sauce.”

As Napoleon toiled over the stove, Illya uncorked the bottle, pouring some of the clear red liquid into two delicate crystal wine glasses.

“Napoleon, I…” he stopped. “Here is your wine.”

Napoleon took the proffered glass, swirled its contents gently, then inhaled the wine's wonderful aroma before taking a sip. “Ahhh,” he murmured. “Exquisite.” He took another sip then asked, “What were you about to say?”

After a slight hesitation Illya said, “I was going to thank you for inviting me here, for not treating me like an unpleasant duty you feel obligated to perform. For being my friend. No one else…” Illya's expression was, for once, open and vulnerable. “There is no one else.”

Napoleon felt a sudden wave of tenderness threatening to overwhelm him. He reached tentatively across the countertop and clasped Illya’s hand, marveling once again at its warmth, its strength. He felt it tense then relax in his grasp, and their fingers intertwined for a moment before Napoleon withdrew, shaken by a sudden realization of the depth of his feelings for his partner. “Come on, let’s eat,” he said, mentally calling himself a coward.

As he set the salad bowl on the breakfast bar and went to ladle sauce over two steaming mounds of pasta, Napoleon couldn't help wondering if Illya knew how he felt. _But how could he? Until just now, even I didn’t know._ A small voice in the back of his mind called him a liar, but Napoleon chose to ignore it.

While Illya ate in silence, his attention apparently fixed on his food, Napoleon talked too much and too brightly, trying to distract himself from his new awareness of his friend. He ached to touch him again but was afraid of what Illya’s reaction would be. In the end he drank more wine than he realized, and this time as he reached for the bottle he accidentally knocked it over, spattering Illya’s white sweater with drops of red. _Red as blood,_ Napoleon thought hazily. He leaned back on his bar stool, pressing the palms of his hands over this eyes, his head spinning and his stomach roiling. “I’m sorry,” he said, not sure if he was referring to spilling the wine or to everything in the past that he might have done that had hurt Illya, that had caused him pain. 

Strong arms closed around his shoulders, and Napoleon buried his face gratefully against Illya’s chest, reaching to enfold the slender, hard body in a bruising embrace.

“Impossible,” Illya murmured, and Napoleon winced, attempting to pull away only to find himself held firmly in place. “No, not _this_. I meant I thought it was impossible that you could ever want me as I have wanted you.”

“You want me?”

Illya’s face was serious, almost mesmerizing in its intensity, and his pale blue eyes had darkened to smoky gray. “Yes,” he answered simply.

Napoleon stood up, still holding on to Illya. If he had been drunk before, his head felt completely clear now. Tingling with anticipation, he slowly bent his head to initiate their first kiss. The Russian leaned into it as if he was trying to force their flesh to flow together and merge. 

“We’d better slow down,” Napoleon panted as he reluctantly pulled away, “or I’ll come right here like an adolescent schoolboy who can’t wait long enough to get his pants down. My reputation, not to mention my ego, would never recover.” He reached up under Illya’s sweater to caress bare skin. “God,“ he murmured, “you feel wonderful.” Napoleon rubbed his palms over prominent ribs, hearing Illya draw in his breath with a hiss as he encircled the small, twin buds of the Russian’s nipples with his thumbs. 

With a quick, sure movement Napoleon grabbed the hem of Illya’s sweater and pulled it up and off, leaving him naked from the waist up, exposed and shivering, though not, Napoleon was certain, from the cold. Once again Napoleon focused his attention on Illya’s nipples, this time bending down to gently lave first one then the other with his tongue.

“Napoleon, don’t!”

“Don’t what?” he asked, straightening up with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. When Illya didn’t immediately answer, he reached around to grasp his partner's buttocks, pulling their groins purposefully together so their erections met and rubbed enticingly.

“Don’t tease me,” Illya threatened through clenched teeth.

“No,” Napoleon agreed, “I won’t tease you. Come on, let’s go to bed.”

He took Illya’s hand and guided his friend, his soon-to-be lover, out of the kitchen and down the hall to the bedroom, where he quickly removed the rest of the Russian’s clothing, then his own. They parted and went to opposite sides of the bed and, sliding under the covers, moved forward until their bodies met in the middle, arms and legs entwining.

Both men seemed to know that this first time they had to meet as equals, neither one dominant or passive, neither one only giving or only taking. Instead, they lay together, rocking against one another, both giving, both taking, sharing their need, their desire, and ultimately their release. Afterwards, they lay in each others arms, Illya's cheek resting lightly on Napoleon’s shoulder.

“I love you, you know,” Napoleon said as he rubbed his face against the silk of Illya’s hair.

“Yes,” Illya agreed smugly, “I know.”

“Well?”

“Well what, Napoleon?” Illya asked, rising up on one elbow to gaze down at his lover.

“Well,” Napoleon clarified with only partially feigned frustration, “do you love me, too?”

Illya lowered himself on top of his partner, sensuously rubbing their spent groins together. “What do you think?”

“I think,” Napoleon said with a wicked grin, "that I was right last night. As usual,” he added, stifling a groan.

“Right about what?” Illya asked, increasing his movements as Napoleon began to harden again under him.

“We do—oh!—” Napoleon gasped, tumbling Illya over onto his back, “seem to have a _lot_ in common.”

Illya’s answer, if he had one, was cut off by the hungry mouth that reached down just then to greedily capture his own.


End file.
